


Fine Lines

by Scatterboom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 21:48:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7378558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scatterboom/pseuds/Scatterboom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A secret morning in 221B.</p><p>Sherlock and Irene discuss the impossibilities of growing old – and the possibilities of growing old together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fine Lines

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm sorry for not posting anything new in a while. I've actually been working on two other Adlock fics, and one of them spiraled completely out of control and has ended up a gargantuan 20-chapter monster-in-progress. So, to de-stress from both that and real life, I decided to write a silly little oneshot where Irene and Sherlock are, once again, ooey gooey lovebirds with no short supply of deadpan snarks for each other. This wasn't too heavily over-thought; it was just a fun fling (for both me and them). I hope you enjoy, and I hope for a shorter gap between this and the posting of my next fic. :)

“You’ve got some grey hair,” Irene says to him one cold and early dawn, as they sit opposite each other at the kitchen table.

“So do you,” Sherlock answers without looking up. He cuts a square from a thick roll of gauze.

She reaches out to twist a lock of coal and silver at his forehead around one of her fingers. “It suits you.”

He raises a hand to ease hers away, and goes back to work on the gauze. “Should I be thrilled about that?”

She smiles. “It’s a mark of elegance.”

“It’s a symptom of coming death.”

Irene laughs. “My god, you are dramatic.” She pokes a finger at the wound on her temple, where a patchy trickle of blood is drying. “I would say _this_ was more a symptom of coming death.”

“Don’t touch it, you haven’t washed your hands.”

Irene rolls her eyes and obeys. Sherlock finally lifts the scrap of gauze, its corners lined with medical tape, to her face, and smooths it over the gash. “Any discomfort?” he asks.

“Not much at all.”

“I thought so. It’s barely just a flesh wound. You’re lucky we’d gotten the rifle off him; the man was far less proficient with a melee weapon.”

“I’m ‘lucky’ that a trained killer grazed my face with his back-up knife.” Irene raises her eyebrows. “Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Optimist.”

He shrugs as he hides the gauze back into the first aid kit. “I was trying to redeem myself after the ‘coming death’ remark.”

“No, I don’t think I’ll ever let you forget that,” Irene says. She puts out both her hands. “Roll up your sleeve, let me see the bruising.”

Sherlock flinches. “What bruising.”

“You wince whenever you bend your right arm. I saw him grab you after you knocked his gun away. Come on now.”

He hesitates for a heartbeat, but then unbuttons his black sleeve and pulls it back, though his eyes don’t leave Irene’s. A deep splotch of purple, roughly in the shape of a hand, encircles the upper half of his right forearm.

“My, my,” says Irene, taking his arm to look closer. “Looks rather worse than mine, and mine _bled_. Need some ice?”

 “I’ll be fine.” But he cringes again when he retracts his arm from her grip.

“Oh for God’s sake, let me get it,” says Irene as she gets down from her stool. “No body parts in the freezer this time?” He shakes his head, cradling his injured arm like a sulking child, and Irene heads for the fridge.

She takes a minute to place some ice cubes in a washcloth and wrap them up, then walks back over to Sherlock, who’s suddenly able to grin again. “We’re precisely the same height, you standing and me sitting on this stool,” he says.

“Not if I knock you off it,” Irene replies, “now shut up for one second and let me do this for you; once you’re in less pain I’ve half a mind to have you on the kitchen table.”

She presses the makeshift ice pack against his bruise with more force than necessary, making him gasp in surprise. Her vengeance is served, and she goes back to gazing at him almost gently. “Though not even sure if we have the time, to be honest. Best I flee before the sun comes up. Can’t risk running into your landlady.”

“You can leave through my window,” he says through gritted teeth – the coldness of the ice pierces his nerves, and he clenches his fist.

“Like before? How juvenile,” she laughs. “Do you never think to yourself that you’re getting too old for something?”

“For tracking down dangerous criminals in the early hours of the morning? Never,” Sherlock says. “For getting physically battered in the process? Occasionally.”

It’s an admission that would not have come from him easily a few years ago, when they had just begun speaking again in his two-year hiatus. And he certainly wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone else – not Mycroft, who would ridicule him, not even John, who probably would have figured it out on his own anyway, when he’ll witness him catching his breath after a few flights of stairs.

But at least, with Irene, he could verbalize it. Put it neatly in a box and offer her the key to lock it away. What he liked was that every secret he told Irene, stayed secret. Because everything _about_ them was secret.

“And you,” he says, disturbing the cool silence as she lingers there, holding the ice pack to his skin. “I’m sure you have no fears about growing old.”

“It’s beyond your understanding,” Irene says simply. Coming from anyone else it would have registered to him as a grave insult. “Aging is far more dangerous for a woman. It’s the opposite for us: value is reduced, not appreciated. She becomes dispensable, not respected.”

Slowly, Sherlock turns his hand, to take a gentle hold of Irene’s arm. She’s disguised as an office worker, hair pinned up, with a plain brown pencil skirt and long-sleeved blouse, though it’s still a comforting anchor to feel the shape of her elbow through the fabric. “So you’re afraid of being dispensed with?”

Irene flashes a wicked smirk. “I never said I was afraid – I’m just proving to you how impressive it is that I’m not.”

Sherlock gives a small smile back, and then something about her expression – her gleaming eyes, the raised corner of her lips – drives him forward to kiss her deep.

Irene opens her mouth and drinks him in, their tongues moving slowly against each other, her fingers sliding into the curls behind his ear, her other hand momentarily forgotten; it continues to press the washcloth to his bruise, the melted ice soaking through the fabric and trickling down his skin, dripping to his knee.

They pull away after several moments, though keep their mouths centimetres apart, the tips of their noses brushing still. It’s still very early in the dawn, so the light that creeps in through the window to veil their faces is dim and blue.

Irene hums. “Crow’s feet, though not from age. You’ve had them a long time.”

“You’re just now getting yours,” Sherlock retaliates. “…If the creases in the bloodstain from your wound are to be trusted.”

She huffs in amusement. “Beauty tip: for a youthful look, avoid killers swinging knives at your face.”

He leans back a bit. “I suppose your coming over to help me solve crimes could be a factor in aging faster.”

“Doctor Watson _is_ completely greyed, and Mrs. Watson’s surely getting there, now that you mention it.”

“How long do you think things will stay this way?” he asks.

Irene finally lifts the ice pack off his arm and sets it on the table. “As long as I want.”

“How long _do_ you want?”

That makes her pause to think. “Perhaps it doesn’t matter. The kind of work we both do doesn’t permit ‘long’ lifespans in any case.” She lifts her eyes again to meet his, a teasing smile returning to her mouth, still deep pink from their kissing. “Why do you ask – making some serious plans? Getting duplicates of your keys? Joint bank account…?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “No. I suppose I needed… your perspective on things.” Up to now he’d been clinging on to her elbow, but he lets go to make a small, rotating gesture next to his head. “I don’t – can’t – it’s not my area to _speculate._ Envision impossible things without prior reasoning or physical evidence.”

Irene doesn’t speak, only blinks slowly as she listens to him.

“Before…” he motions between the two of them, “… _this_ , the distant future was absurdly clear to me, because everything in my life was constant. The work. John. Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft. The Yard. Baker Street. I could extrapolate from that. But now I – we have this entirely unpredictable arrangement, where we risk our lives to meet only occasionally and it’s… a question mark. I don’t know what will happen next month or next year.”

Irene tilts her head. “Does that scare you?”

He looks directly at her, as if studying her. “Does it scare _you?_ Surely stakes are higher for you than they are for me. You travel all the time, and definitely not to the safest places. I have at least 221B as a fixed variable.”

“So do I.”

She lets the implication of that sink gradually in the new silence between them, while he gazes at her with one of his unnamable expressions. Meanwhile she slides her palm up his chest to land at his shoulder.

“How’s the bruise?” Irene asks. “Any pain?”

“No,” he answers.

“Good.” She closes the gap between them again and presses her mouth to his.

Sherlock immediately responds, parting his lips and pushing his hands into her hair, disturbing the dozen bobby pins and pristinely coiled waves.

They are precisely the same height, her standing and him sitting on the kitchen stool, and Irene leans forward to drag her hands hard up his thighs, tracking the remaining drips of ice water from his knee up his trousers.

As their kissing grows more uninhibited he bites her bottom lip suddenly and she lets out a gasp of surprise, digging her nails hard at the tops of his thighs near his crotch, making him grunt while his teeth are still latched on her skin. Their motions shift from slow and liquid to frenzied, competitive: he drops his hands from her hair to map her collarbones, breasts, waist, arse, so that he can jerk her closer, and she pushes her tongue deep past his lips.

Sherlock grabs her by the thighs then, and stands up so that he lifts her off the ground. He quickly turns and heaves her onto the tabletop, shoving the files and books away behind her to make space.

As soon as he’s done Irene takes hold of his belt to yank him closer, so that his forehead meets hers and he has to plant his palms on the table. Their breaths, now heavy and warm and loud in the cold, still air of the morning, mingle between them.

“You never answered me,” she whispers, her mouth only subtly brushing against his. “Our ‘entirely unpredictable arrangement’. Does it _scare_ you?”

He doesn’t reply immediately, taking luxurious time to slowly roll the front of his hips against her knees. “No. I’m not sure if that’s the right word.”

She begins to undo his belt, letting her fingers brush close against his fly – he lets out a sigh at that. “Does it _excite_ you?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, at least not verbally. He’s already begun to return the favor by unfastening the clasp of Irene’s skirt at the side of her waist – though not once do his eyes leave hers.

A devil’s smile spreads across her lips, even as she tugs his belt out of its loops. “I’ll take that as a yes.” She folds the belt in half, and then drags the end of it, teasingly, down the line of his sweat-sheened neck, past his sharp jawline and over the curve of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. “Though haven’t I always taught you that there is only a fine, fine, fine line between fear and excitement?”

At that, Sherlock surges forward to meet her lips again, and this new kiss is far less coordinated than the last. Several times they wrench their open mouths apart to press them against each other’s necks, jaws, ears, in a need to taste skin; every gasp or grunt of pleasure uttered by one responded to with a sigh from the other. Irene drops his belt to wrap her hands over him and rake her nails down his tensed back muscles. Even in the morning chill they are swathed in waves of heat.

Sherlock digs his fingers under the waistline of Irene’s pencil skirt, and starts to yank it down. She assists him by pushing her underwear down along with it, so that they slide both articles of clothing down her legs and to the floor, shedding her shoes as well.

Now she’s half bare, with only her bra and rumpled blouse on, and her mostly-undone hair, and he seems rendered speechless by the sight. Not that she’s any more articulate at that very second – she rakes her eyes down his body, her lips swollen and parted, and then slips her hands over his shoulders to wrap around his neck. It’s something Sherlock’s felt hundreds of times – the solid weight of her arms on his back – in hundreds of contexts: her pulling him down to dodge an opponent’s bullet, or him carrying her over a wall they have to traverse. And of course, in contexts like _these._ He doesn’t suppose it’ll ever grow old, for either of them.

He puts a palm against the small of her back to easer her hips closer to him, and the new proximity suddenly makes everything feel warmer, every microscopic brush of his body with hers magnified. His free hand reaches underneath the hem of her top, his fingers sliding over her skin, until he comes into contact with her clit.

Irene draws in a sharp breath, and immediately he leans closer and circles her flesh. Her thighs tense against his sides, and her hands at his shoulders clutch tightly at his shirt. He presses his fingers harder, and she lets out a sharp “ _Oh,”_ and at that his mouth silently drops open to mirror her blissed expression.

Together they rock, and with every swirl of Sherlock’s fingers Irene’s eyes shut tighter and she makes even more lovely, breathy sounds, and Sherlock moans and can’t help but rub his front against the edge of the table to seek some momentary relief from the pressure.

He drives his fingers against her clit, faster now that her skin is so wet and slick, until Irene’s knees clamp against his sides and she throws back her head, lost.

With his hand now free he hurriedly gets to unclasping his trousers, and seconds later Irene’s fingers join him to undo his fly, and together they push his boxers out of the way. She also grabs the lapels of his shirt to pry all the buttons open in one motion, and then pushes the fabric off his shoulders and down his arms, past the bruising on his forearm – he makes a small gasp at the sensation but then quickly returns his hands to her hips.

“Tell, me,” she pants as she drags one hand down his heaving chest, until she reaches his erection and curls her fingers tightly around it, drawing a shudder out from him, “When you were… _extrapolating_ … about your future… did you ever envision that your kitchen table… would be put to use like this?”

“I would answer you with – an explanation as to why – I obviously _haven’t_ ,” Sherlock pauses to grunt at the way she’s begun pumping him quickly, “but I do realize that you’re teasing me.”

“And you’ve had enough of teasing, haven’t you,” Irene smiles, suddenly stilling the hand she has on his cock, and then slides her legs, slowly, against his sides, his waist, until they’re wrapped around him.

There’s no need to answer with words. Sherlock tightens his grasp on her hips and enters her in a hard jerk that makes them both exhale hot gusts of air by reflex. Irene’s hands fly to his triceps and her nails press into his sweat-slickened skin.

He’s tense for a long moment, adjusting; she is hot and tight and he has to be careful not to be swept away by sensation. Yet, when he opens his eyes, Irene is staring right back, focused, yet flushed.

He grips her firmly in place and starts surging forward again and again, eagerly welcoming the heat and pleasure that coils through his body. Irene pulls closer to kiss him messily, and he can feel the shape of her breasts through her blouse pressing against his bare chest.

It makes him crave more, and he drives a measure deeper into her – Irene jerks her head away from their kiss to gasp. She returns with a vengeance, and goes to plant her mouth to his throat, and he can’t help but shudder at the warm, wet pressure he’s being spoiled with.

He starts drawing out longer and farther and plunging back harder, and the sound and sensation of it is enough to make Irene arch in pleasure, leaning her upper body away until the back of her head lands against a stack of books and papers still on the table, and her hands stretch to Sherlock’s hips to guide his thrusts. His own hands let go of her and plant against the tabletop. Soon she lies flat on the table while he bends over her, though it causes the table to wobble with his every lurch forward.

Now they’re working faster and more frantically, with Sherlock breathing heavily on every thrust, his trousers and pants having slid partially down his thighs, and Irene crying out louder and rougher than before, her clutch on his hips slipping from their sweat – “Oh, god, don’t stop,” she sighs, and he’d always found that one of the odder mid-coital exclamations on the list; why bother imploring someone not to stop when at this stage it should be glaringly obvious by both his appearance and actions that he has no intention to actually – Irene drags her nails hard down his chest, and he forgets immediately what he was going to complain about.

He begins to spot the signs – _her eyes close;_ _her head tilts back roughly 30 degrees; respiratory rate increases to about 60 breaths per minute; teeth dig into her bottom lip her shoulders lock up her thighs shake her grip on me tightens_ – until his vision goes too unfocused for him to observe anything. He moans when he feels her nails sink into his flesh, right above his rear. He drops his head to bury against her neck, taste her skin, just as enveloped in heat and sweat as his.

“Ire – _Irene_ ,” he rasps, and it seems enough for her to break – she cries out a short, hard “ _Ahh,”_ her whole body succumbing to shattering tremors – Sherlock, buried inside her, feels every throb, one after the other, enveloping him tight – he finally freezes still, his every muscle tense and on fire, his senses all searing white at once and yet utterly lost in the heavy fog of _her._

When Sherlock’s limbs finally slacken and he sluggishly pulls out from her, Irene sits up almost immediately, pushing Sherlock back to standing position with her palms on his still-heaving chest.

They’re both panting heavily, half their clothes drenched and disheveled and the other half in a pool on the floor, and yet Irene’s hand teasingly slides down his abdomen, until she reaches his cock, surprisingly still half hard, tracing a finger over its length.

“Mm, looks like there’s _one_ trick you’re not still too old for,” she murmurs, and Sherlock can only shudder in reply. “Shall we continue this in your bedroom?”

He opens his eyes to gaze at her, their faces only inches apart. “You said we wouldn’t have time.”

She brings her hand up to his cheek, rests her forehead against his again. “I can leave through your window.” Ah, one trick _she’s_ not still too old for.

He helps her off the kitchen table (new data added regarding _that_ part of 221B) and they shed the rest of their clothes, moving slowly, in small steps and kisses, together into his room.

Turns out Sherlock _does_ still need a physical timeout, so for a matter of minutes he leans her against his pillows and settles between her thighs, using his mouth to bring her to a sleepy, very satisfactory orgasm that ends with her hands buried in his mane of wild curls, grey hairs and all.

Afterwards, when both of them are ready again, Irene flips them over and locks down his wrists at either side of his head, then rocks down onto his hips, teasingly switching between heavy and shallow, fast and then infuriatingly slow, until it’s enough for Sherlock to gasp, “Don’t stop.”

Ages later, they lie under his warm sheets, facing each other.

“I still want to know,” he says – and though he’s not quite sure how much he’ll like her answer, he wants to ask anyway, to have her put the answer neatly in a box then offer him the key to lock it away. “How long you want things to stay this way.”

Irene’s eyes have already slipped closed, but she smiles, softly. “Perhaps I’ll tell you years and years from now.”

The chilly dawn has given way to a warm, gently bright morning. Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler are fast asleep in his bed.


End file.
